RETRIBUTION.
"Oh, woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may,
And when the mockery of fate
Hath left revenge her chosen way."
Whittier.
t was the afternoon of the following day. The squire sat alone, muttering to himself: "Singular! most singular! most ex-cess-ively singular! wants a private interview, eh! What the dickens can be in old Wiseman's noddle now? Maybe he wants to divorce Gipsy, and marry Lizzie. Ha! ha! ha! that would be a joke. Wonder what old Mother Oranmore wanted? that's another secret. I suppose she told Gipsy and—ha! here's Gipsy herself. 'Speak of Old Nick, and he'll appear,' as Solomon says. Well, what's the news?"
"Where's Dr. Wiseman?" inquired Gipsy, abruptly.
"Up stairs. He sent down word some time ago, that he had something important to tell me, and wanted a private interview. Think of that! But what is the matter with you? You look as if you'd been riding on a broomstick all night—as if you were the Witch of Endor, who told King Saul's fortune long ago."
As he spoke, a slow, heavy footstep was heard descending the stairs.
"There's old Wiseman now, pegging along," said the squire. "I never see him walking, since he broke his shin-bone, that he doesn't remind me of Old Nick himself. Now for this wonderful secret of his."
"Guardy, don't mention that I am here," said Gipsy, hurriedly. "I have a project in hand, that I fancy will astonish him a little, by and by."
"Well, be sure you're right, then go ahead, as Solomon says—you always have some project or other in your cranium to bother his brains."
"I fancy I will bother him a little more than usual this time," said Gipsy, with a low, bitter laugh—gliding through one door just as the doctor entered by another.
Dr. Wiseman, thin and attenuated by illness, looked even more ghastly and hideous (if such a thing were possible) than when we saw him last. He advanced, and took a seat near the fire.
"Well, Wiseman, what's this wonderful affair you have to tell me?" said the squire, adjusting himself in his seat to listen.
"It concerns my wife," replied the doctor, slowly.
"Yes, some complaint, I'll be bound! Now, I tell you what, Wiseman, I won't listen to your stories about Gipsy. She has always done what she liked, and she always shall, for what I care. If she likes to enjoy herself, she will, and you nor no one else shall interfere," said the squire, striking the table with an emphatic thump.
"Don't jump at conclusions so hastily, my dear sir," said the doctor, dryly. "I have no complaint to make of Mrs. Wiseman. It is of her birth and parentage I would speak."
"Her birth and parentage! Is the man mad? Don't you know she's a foundling?" said the squire, staring with all his eyes.
"Yes, but lately I have discovered who she is. You need not excite yourself, Squire Erliston, as I see you intend doing. Listen to me, and I will tell you all about it. The time has come for you to know.
"Perhaps you are not aware that for many years I have been the friend and confidant of Mrs. Madge Oranmore; but so it is. I was bound to her by the strongest ties of gratitude, and willingly served her in all things.
"One Christmas eve, just nineteen years ago, she sent for me in most urgent haste. I followed her messenger, and was shown to the lady's room. There I found an infant enveloped in a large shawl, which she told me I was to consign to the waves—in a word, to drown it. You start, Squire Erliston, but such was her command. She refused to tell me what prompted her to so fiendish an act. I was in her power, and she knew I dared not refuse; I therefore consented——"
"To drown the child?" said the squire, recoiling in horror.
"Listen—I feared to refuse, and promised to do it. I went to the beach, the tide was out; while I stood hesitating, I heard a sleigh approaching. I wrapped the child up closely, and laid it right in their way, and stood aside to watch the event; determined, in case they did not see it, to provide for it comfortably myself. Fortunately, they saw it. A woman who was in the sleigh took it with her—that woman was Mrs. Gower—that child is now my wife."
"Goo-oo-d Lord!" ejaculated the squire, whose mouth and eyes were open to their widest extent.
"When you told me how she had been found, I knew immediately it was the same. I had long felt remorse for what I had done, and I at once resolved to make reparation to the best of my power, by marrying the foundling. This, Squire Erliston, was the secret of my wish to marry Gipsy, which puzzled you so long.
"Still, I was completely ignorant of her parentage. Owing to my accident, I was unable to visit Mrs. Oranmore; but I wrote to her repeatedly, threatening her with exposure if she did not immediately reveal the whole affair. She grew alarmed at last, and sent me a letter that explained all, only begging me not to disgrace her, by letting the world know what she had done. That letter, I regret to say, has been unhappily lost."
"Well!" said the squire, breathlessly, seeing he paused.
"Well, sir, she told me all. My wife is the child of your eldest daughter, Esther, and Alfred Oranmore."
Bewildered, amazed, thunderstruck, the squire sat gazing upon him in a speechless horror.
"The way of it was this," continued the doctor, as calmly as though he was ordering him a prescription. "Alfred Oranmore, as you know, was accidentally drowned, leaving his wife in the utmost destitution. Mrs. Oranmore heard of it, and had Esther privately conveyed to her house, while she caused a notice of her death to be published in the papers. What her object was in doing this, I know not. Esther, she says, died in her house. How she came by her death, I cannot even guess. I knew nothing of it at the time, as I told you before. Mrs. Oranmore wished this child removed, that it might not be in the way of her son, Barry; and thinking I was as heartless and cruel as herself, she employed me to drown it. Such, Squire Erliston, is this singular story. I thought it my duty to inform you immediately."
"And Gipsy is my grandchild," said the squire, in the slow, bewildered tone of one who cannot realize what he says.
"Yes; and the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset," said the wily doctor, in a slow, triumphant tone.
"And the avenger of her mother!" cried the voice of Gipsy herself, as she stood before them. "Oh, wonderful Doctor Wiseman! astonishing indeed is thy talent for invention and hardihood. What a strain on your imagination it must have been, to invent such a story! Have you ever heard of the proverb, 'Murder will out,' my lord and master? Ho, there! Burke and Johnston, enter! here is your prisoner!"
She opened the door as she spoke, and the constables entered.
"What in the devil's name means this?" exclaimed the doctor, growing deadly pale.
"Yes, call on your master," mocked Gipsy; "he has stood by you long, but I fear he will not serve you more. Quick, there, Burke! on with the handcuffs. Gently, Doctor Wiseman—gently, my dear sir; you will hurt your delicate wrists if you struggle so. Did any prophetic seer ever foretell, Doctor Wiseman, your end would be by the halter?"
"What means this outrage? Unhand me, villains!" exclaimed the doctor, hoarse with rage and fear, as he struggled madly to free himself from the grasp of the constables.
"Softly, doctor, softly," said Gipsy, in a voice, low, calm, and mocking; "you are only arrested for the murder of my mother, Esther Oranmore, just nineteen years ago. Ah! I see you remember it. I feared such a trifle might have escaped your memory!"
The face of the doctor grew perfectly ghastly. He staggered back, and would have fallen, had he not been upheld by one of the men. Gipsy stood before him, with a face perfectly white, save two dark purple spots burning on either cheek. Her wild eyes were blazing with an intense light, her lips wreathed in a smile of exultant triumph; her long hair, streaming in disorder down her back, gave her a look that awed even the constables themselves.
"And now, Doctor Wiseman," she said, in a slow, bitter, but exulting voice, "I have fulfilled my vow of vengeance; my revenge is complete, or will be, when your miserable body swings from the gallows. I see now, your aim in compelling me to marry you; but you have failed. Satan has deserted his earthly representative, at last. No earthly power can save you from hanging now. Away with him to prison! The very air is tainted which a murderer breathes."
The men advanced to bear off their prisoner. At that moment the recollection of the astrologer's fell prediction flashed across his mind. Word for word it had been fulfilled. Before him, in ghastly array, arose the scaffold, the hangman, his dying agonies, and the terrible hereafter. Overcome by fear, horror, and remorse, with a piercing shriek of utter woe, the wretched man fell senseless to the floor.
"Take him away," said Gipsy, sternly, turning aside with a shudder of disgust; "my eyes loathe the sight of him!"
They bore him away. Gipsy stood at the window listening, until the last sound of the carriage died away in the distance; then, abruptly turning, she quitted the room, leaving the squire stunned, speechless, and bewildered by the rapidity with which all this had taken place.